Day By Day Beatles
by DisneyBeatleTurtlefan94
Summary: This fanfic from Deviantart is about Paul McCartney getting the 'gastric flu'. Taken from an actual event in Beatle-History and dramatized XD please enjoy:D
1. Chapter 1

On a brisk November afternoon, the twelfth of 1963, the Beatles stood outside in a hallway behind the door of a room for the Southern Television program 'Day By Day', where they would be interviewed about their upcoming concert by Mr. Jeremy James. George was smoking a cigarette as John and Ringo were listening in on what was going on behind the doors that they were anxiously awaiting to walk through; ears glued to the crack in the door, when they heard an announcer shout, "...An' coming up shortly aftah this commercial break-an interview with: you guessed it, folks-the Beatles!"

"Foin'lly," Ringo groaned, "Thought they'd fugotten abou' t'us."

John and Ringo removed their heads from the door and formed a small square-like huddle with George and Paul. John and Ringo stood up, as George was sitting next to Paul, strumming his guitar with his fingers. Paul sat next to him quietly-more quietly than usual. John noticed that his naturally-droopy eyes were a lot droopier than usual, and that, though the hall was a bit chilled from the autumn air brushing in every now and again, Paul was in a bit of a sweat. Ignoring it, John clapped his hands together and said rather excitedly, "Alroi', lads-Ah say we base this 'ere intehview on the Royal Variety Show, an'...ouhr new songs comin' up. Whaddya say?"

"Gear," Ringo replied.

"Let's have a go a' it, then," George chimed in, strumming some of the strings on his guitar.

"Alroi'," John piped up, "Whaddya think, Paul?....Ehm-Paul?"

John had noticed that Paul had closed his eyes and was laying his head on George's shoulder. He wasn't asleep, but he just took a light rest with his eyes closed.

"Oh, fah Christ's sake," John yelled rubbing his eyes with his palm, "WAKE UP, MCCARTNEY!"

George pushed Paul's head off of his boney shoulder, which jolted Paul to snap out of his dreary state.

"Hmm," He yelped excitedly, "Wha's tha'?"

"Foh the intehview," Ringo spoke up, "We jus' gonna tolk abou' the Show las' week an' ouh songs."

"An' Ah was wond'rin' if tha' was alroi' by YOU," John intruded.

"Oh, yeah," Paul replied hoarsely, "Sounds fab," he croaked before clearing his throat. He then got into a short fit of croupy coughing and sniffled.

"Well, you don't sound too fab," George said, looking up from his guitar and over to a weary-looking Paul, "Y' alright, Paul?"

"Yeah, lad," Ringo added, "Tha' didn't sound too hot."

"W-w-well," Paul replied, wrapping his arms around his shaky body, "N-now thatcha m-m-mention it, I ain't s'actly f-f-feelin' t-too hot, meself..."

George reached over and placed a hand on Paul's forehead.

"Awh, I'd beg ta differ," George cautioned, "He's runnin' a temp'rature!"

"M-maybe i-it's j-j-just the heatin'," Paul added as his teeth chattered, "T-the b-b-buildin's overheatin' o' s-s-somethin'..."

"Yeh look awef'lly cold feh someone in an 'overheatin' buildin'," Ringo replied.

"Christ, Mac," John pointed out concernedly, "Yeh shakin' loi' an earthquake!"

"Well, ain'tchu lads even the sloightes' bit cold'," Paul shivered, "Ah mean- it ain't exac'ly a-ah--HAya-HAIIIISHOO!"

"Gesunheidt," John replied quietly, turning to Ringo and George, whom all three seemed to be sharing the same concern. Now, the boys heard an average, normal Paul McCartney-sneeze before: quite normal, really. However, THAT sneeze- that high-pitched, furoscious one, was not an 'average, normal' one.

"Ugh-thanks," Paul mumbled with a sniff and a cough.

"Tha' was quoite a sneeze, lad," Ringo said worriedly, "Ah think yeh moight be comin' down with something."

"Nonsense!" Paul cried in a congested voice, "Ndow, loi' Ah was sayin'-it ain' exactly abnormal for a-ha-HAIIIRSHOOO!"

"Bless ya!" George jumped suprisedly from the force of Paul's sneeze. John handed him a handkerchief, and Paul blew his nose rather loudly and resembled the blaze of a trumpet.

"You sure yeh not catchin' nuthin'?" Ringo repeated, more concernedly this time.

"POSITIVE," Paul replied angrily, as his voice cracked, "NOW-LOI' AH WAS SAYIN' -it ain't exactly abnormal for a lad ta be a bit chilly in Novembah!"

"Then, 'ow come yah runnin' a temp'rature if yeh so cold, son," Ringo asked softly, knealing down to Paul's level placing his hand on Paul's warm forehead. He stepped back, arms crossed with a worry in his blue eyes. Paul was about to reply, "Well--I," but was stopped by an unexpected cough that led into a whole shpeal of coughing. He turned his head away, sort of trying to hide his face from his friends, and after he finished coughing, he sneezed and sighed with discomfort and frustration as he shivered. John then walked up to him, knelt down in front of him, turned back to John and George who were standing behind him, and again that same feeling of concern swept over the three of them like a tidle-wave.

Just then, an executive poked her head out of the door, and called cheerfully, "Mr. James is ready for you, Beatles."

"Thank you," George cried with a little wave, as he looked down at Ringo.  
Ringo looked up at him, then at John. John notioned with his head for him and George to go on inside. Ringo turned to George, shrugged and walked in as George followed behind him suit, looking back quickly at John and Paul. Paul stood up, a bit uneasily, and headed towards the door-when all of a sudden, it was shut quick just before he could take hold of the handle. Paul looked confusedly at the door, then heard an 'ahem' to the right of him, and found John looking at him with a cocky smile, and a hand pressed against the door. However, his smile quickly faded as he got a closer look at Paul-noticing for the first time today how sick he actually was.

Paul's face was terribley pale, and his cheeks were flushed with a shade of bright pink. He was rubbing his red-tinted nose, and noticed his eyes had small, subtle bags underneath them. His droopier-than-normal eyes were a little puffy, and he noticed his breathing was unsteady and congested. He looked down further, and saw that McCartney had an arm wrapped around his stomach, and his hand was as white, if not whiter, than his face. He stood there shakily, hunched over slightly, looking up at John, his nose running a little, with big, puppy-dog eyes tearing up a bit. He groaned a little as if he were in some sort of a great deal of pain, and held his stomach with both arms. John saw a few more little beads of sweat forming on his friends forehead, and placed the back of his hand against it while the other rested on Paul's shaky shoulder. The ends of his mop-top, dark hair-along with his brow- were damp from Paul's sweat, and his forehead burned with fever.

"Oi, lad," John cried, pulling his hand away from Paul's forhead quickly so not to burn it, "Y' could fry an egg on tha' thing."

Paul wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. He straightened his body, put on a brave face, and cleared his throat.

"Alroi'," Paul muttered, reaching for the door-knob, "C'mon then."

"An' where in blazes d' yeh think youh goin'?" John said suprisedly slamming the door as Paul opened it.

"Well," Paul said with a little cough, "We've an interview t' do, 'aven't we?"

"Paul- there ain't no chance in 'ell tha' yeh goin' in there."

"An' woi the hell not?!"

" 'Cos, Paul, look atcha! Ya can barely friggin' stand!... Y' jus' don't seem up ta-"

"Now, dontchu worry 'bout me- Ah'm foine!"

"But Pa-"

"Look, 's just a li'l cold, is oll," Paul placed a firm hand on his worried friend's shoulder, and said sincerely, "Ah'll be fine."

"Ah yeh sure yer up t' this, McCartney?"

John looked into Paul's tired eyes that seemed to beg him for trust.

John ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, as he finally said, "Oh--alroi'. BUT- if yeh start t' feel ill, PROMISE yeh'll tell me."

"Alroi'." Paul replied blatantly. John raised an eye-brow and then stuck out his pinky.

"PINKY-promise?"

"Pinky-promise," Paul replied, wrapping his finger around John's.

"We've GOT ta figure out somethin' less queer t' swear on, alroi'?" John added as he walked through the door, Paul followed behind, laughing a little as they walked through the backstage doors.


	2. Chapter 2

The Beatles walked onto the large backstage platform and looked around at the cameras and lights, almost mesmorized. They stood in a huddle as they waited for Jeremy James to interview them.

"How much toime 'ave we befoh the concert," Ringo asked eagerly.

"Oi'd say abou' an hour," John replied, looking down at his watch.

"Where's Misteh James," George cried, looking about the room frantically, "The lady said 'e was ready for us."

"Tha's show-biz folk, lad," Ringo replied, wrapping his arm around his younger, yet taller, friend, "Always fashionably late, tha' they ah."

John giggled as Paul groaned a bit and held his stomach tightly.

"Alroi', mate," Ringo asked looking over at Paul, "Tummy upset?"

" 'S nothin', really," Paul replied hoarsely, "Jus' the butterflies, is all."

But John wasn't buying it. He knew Paul all too well to know when he was alright and when he wasn't- and right now, he WASN'T.

"Yeh lookin' a bit green, Paul," George added, "Sure tha' you're alright?"

"Ah'm sure, Harrie," Paul faked a smile to his young friend, "Thanks, though."

John was about to tell Paul to go sit down somewhere and rest, when Mr. James had finally approached the boys with an eager smile and his microphone held in his fist.

"Weh-he-hell," He started excitedly, shaking each of their hands, "If it isn't The Beatles 'emselves! Pleasure t' meetcha boys!"

"Pleasure," Ringo replied as he shook Jeremy's hand.

"Chahmed," John said as Jeremy shook his hand.

"Hullo," George cried cheerfully as he shook Jeremy's hand.

Paul reached out his hand to shake Jeremy's hand, greeting him kindly with a pleasant, "Nice t' mee-ah-," but pulled his hand back and pinched his nose to stifle a sneeze.

"-ah..HAIKMF-CHOO!"

"Bless," John, George, Ringo, and Jeremy replied.

He sniffled embarrassedly as he muttered to Mr. James, "Ugh-*sniff*-Beg pardon. Terribley sorry, sih!"

" 'S alroi' lad," Jeremy laughed as he handed Paul a tissue, "Say, that was some sneeze there, McCartney. Not catchin' cold, ah yeh?"

"We hope not," John replied as Paul blew his nose.

"Let's say we get on with the intehview then," Mr. James said as he motioned for the camera man to come closer, "So you's can get on with yeh concert."

The Beatles mumbled to themselves and promoted the idea. When all of a sudden, Paul's stomach did a humungous flip-not like one you get when you're nervous either. It was one of those flips you get when you're about to get throw up, or something along those messy lines. Paul was nearly ready to dart to the loo, but he looked back at John who was staring at him wit worried eyes. Paul cleared his throat, faked a smile, and faced the cameras letting out a little sigh of pain.

"Are you beginning to find the strain of this going around the country at this tremendous speed getting you down a bit?" Mr. James asked.

"No, no!" The Beatles laughed, "No we loike it, it's great," Ringo added.

"You know us," Paul chimed in. He felt so tired. So...blah! His eyes were growing heavy, and his stomach-ache worsened by the second. 'Ah can't jus' luke* roi' here,' he thought, 'Not in fron' of all the cam'ras. Or even worse--not in front of the guys!'

Paul had pride issues, you see. He never liked to admit it when he was down. He'd been like this ever since he was just a boy. Paul never liked to complain or anything, and if something was wrong with him, there wasn't enough money in the world that you could pay Paul to admit it. His stomach really hurt, and those big, bright lights weren't helping much either. He'd already felt hot enough as it is, seeing that he was running a fever, and he felt quite dizzy and a bit out of it.

"...Y' see, the police get mobbed, we don't," John replied to Mr. James' question.

"It's always well-organized, y'know," Paul added, trying to contribute to the interview, "Tonigh' wos very good."

He went back to being quiet after that, and seemed to drift away. However he was quickly brought back into the conversation when Jeremy asked, "How'd yeh get here tonight?"

"Wot's 'at?" Paul replied absently. He was not really paying attention to Mr. James. John noticed his lack of alertness, but remained silent.

"How?"

"Well," Paul said hoarsely, then cleared his throat, "We were met outside the, um, city, an' brought in by a van."

John turned to Ringo and noticed Paul's lack of colaberation. He usually ADORED speaking at interviews, and now he was barely speaking two words.

"You're getting so much publicity these days," Jeremy continued, "And even the 'egghead' papers are writing about you. Have you been just a little bit worried that you might be going over the top fairly soon?"

"No, no," John replied cooley, "When ya, gotta go, ya gotta go," he joked, then turning to Paul looking rather serious.

As everybody else laughed, Paul remained still. He was looking at the ground, hands in his pockets, and looked as though he were about to drop any second. John noticed that Paul was not his usual, talkative self like he always is at these interviews. Most of the time, it was he and Paul who carried out most of the conversation with the interviewers, but now Paul seemed to have his head somewhere else.

Later on in the interview, John commented Ringo's scarf, and how his voice sounded funny. Ringo laughed and said, "There's nothin' wrong with it: Oi olways talk loi' this!"

As everybody else laughed, Paul let out an unsteady, "Ahh." He cringed, and held his stomach. It was killing him! He just wished that he were home- in bed. 'Ah can't do this,' Paul thought, "Put on a show tonight with me stomach oll in a knot. But Ah can't let everyone down: the fans, the lads! C'mon, McCartney! Brace up, ol' chap-you'll be fine!" However, like nobody can, Paul couldn't trick himself into thinking he was alright; no matter how much he wanted to.

The interview passed on, and Paul still stood uncomfortabley waiting for the interview to end. He wasn't even pay attention to any of it now. Paul stood quietly behind Ringo, and swayed back and forth dizzily. He felt faint, but held himself together somewhat. His skin was a very pale shade of green, with cheeks and nose a tinted pink. His legs felt weak and shaky, and he was sweating up a storm. Hot and cold all at the same time he felt, and he wished he had a blanket and pillow to just lay down right then and there.

John looked over at Paul to find that he looked faint and ill. Even as Jeremy James was asking him a question, John looked over at Paul, worriedly, and called sternly, "Y' alroi'?!"

Paul was startled. He looked over to everybody and lied calmly, "...Yeah!"

As everybody laughed, and Mr. James directed another question to Ringo and George, John looked straight at Paul with a smirk. Paul looked at him, and then down to the floor. John's smile faded as he asked again, more quietly and concernedly this time, "Ah you alroi'?"

Instead of nodding 'yes', Paul seemed to mouth with his lips 'no', and turned his head as he rolled his eyes, so John couldn't really tell what he'd said.

"The audience," George continued, answering a question, "Was much bettah than we expected.

"Much taller," John added, jokingly.

"Well, lads," Jeremy said, "I figure this about wraps things up for the interview, eh? Thanks foh yeh time, an' best of luck with the concert!"

"An'...clear!" The camera-man called from behind the camera.

"Put on a good show lads," Jeremy cried to the boys excitedly, "Pleasure t' meet ya."

"G'bye!" Ringo cried as Jeremy scampered away.

"Thank you!" George chimed in.

"Oh, shite," John cried looking at his watch, "We've fifteen minets t' show-toime, lads! Let's rehearse real fas', eh?"

As the boys walked over to their instruments, Paul wobbled over shakily to his bass.

"Alroi' then," John cried as he picked up his guitar, "Let's play "A Hard Day's Night" then. Ringo-count off!"

Ringo picked up his drumsticks and tapped them as he said, "An' a one, an' a' two, an' a one-two-three-fouh!"

The boys all looked at Paul who had his eyes closed and a hand on his head, which was aching like crazy now.

"Erhm...Paul?" George tapped Paul's shoulder curiously.

"Hmm?" Paul raised his head, half-opening his tired eyes.

"You start off the song, r'membah? Yah play tha' A-cord on the down-beat and then we sing."

"O-oh, yeah," Paul nodded tiredly, "Th-that's roi'-"

He coughed, and cleared his throat.

"You okay?" Ringo called to Paul, "Yeh lookin' a bit pearly*."

"F-fine, fine," Paul replied as he sniffled, "Once more with th' coun-off, Rings."

Ringo looked at John and George, and clanged his sticks together. Paul played the cord, and everybody sang. Paul started to sing, and then got into a bit of a coughing fit. They stopped, and John walked up to Paul.

"Alroi', Paul," John yelled, "Wot th' 'ell is goin' on with yew?! Yeh havn't been yehself the whole day! The whole bloody intehview, yeh barely spoke two words, an' yeh fugot the friggin' cord of the song! Now, if there's somethin' yeh'd like t' tell us, McCartney, NOW's the toime t' say it!"

Paul was finally about to admit that he was feeling sick, but before he could, his face turned a bright shade of green as he turned his head and threw up all over the floor.

George and Ringo just looked over at him in amazement, and John said quietly as he watched, "Well, tha' explains a lot."

Paul held his stomach for a moment after he let nature run its course, and his knees wobbled before he began to fall down in a faint.

"WHOA, whoa whoa," John cried excitedly, rushing to Paul and catching him before he fell to the floor, "Easy, easy, Mack."

George and Ringo rushed over to John as he tried smacking Paul lightly in the face trying to get him up from passing out.

"Paul, PAUL," Ringo cried as he snapped his fingers near Paul's ear,"Snap out of it, son!"

George reached out his hand and laid it quickly on Paul's forehead before jolting it away.

"Well, Oi'll be damned," George gasped worriedly rubbing his hand, "He's got a spiked fever!"

"Damn it oll," John cried, fanning Paul's face, "Wake up, lad!"

"Hmmm..." Paul moaned sleepily, "J-john? W-wot...wot jus' 'appened....?"

"Paul! Oh, thank goodness," John cried looking to the others, "Yeh've seemed to've fainted, lad. Dontchu r'membah?"

"Oy, y-yeah," Paul replied hoarsely, smiling weakly, "W-w-wos 'at befoh Ah luked, 'er aftah?"

Paul shivered furiously in John's arms, even though his body was as hot as lava on the outside.

"Poor lad's got them chills bad," Ringo muttered as John took off his jacket and placed it on Paul.

He looked to George and ordered, "Go get Brian-NOW-an' tell 'im-"

"Tell Brian wot," Brian laughed as he walked over to the boys, "Now wot's all-"

Brian stopped mid-sentence when he noticed that there was throw-up covering the floor.

"Wot 'appened to the floor?" He asked cautiously.

He then looked over to Paul who was moaning quietly and very sick-looking.

"Wot 'appened to HIM?!" He cried, rushing over to Paul.

"Weeeeell," John started, as Brian felt Paul's impossibley hot forehead, " 'E sort of...got sick, an' fainted."

Brian looked at John comepletely baffled, when Ringo spoke up.

"Brian, Ah think we'd best reschedule the concert foh anotha toime?"

"RESCHEDULE?!" Brian cried angrily.

"R-reschedule??" Paul replied shakily with a sneeze.

"D' you know how much it's gonna cost me t' cancel this 'ere concert t'noi' an' 'reschedule' it foh anothah date?!" He screamed at Ringo angrily.

"Well then, cheap-skate," John cut in, " 'Ow th' hell d'ya think we're gonna do this then withou' Paul?!"

"Oh, Paul can do it, can't 'e?" Brian said eagerly, "Ah mean, he's already luked, so there mus' not be nothin' left fah him to-y' know- 'share with the audience', so he-"

"AH YOU FUCKING JOKING, EP," John interrupted angrily, firery rage built up in his eyes, "LOOK AT 'IM, BRIAN! 'E CAN BARELY FOOCKIN' STAND UP ON 'IS OWN! AN' YOU EXPECT 'IM T' DO A BLOODY CONCERT?! NOT-UH: NO FOOCKIN' WAY! THERE'S NO CHANCE IN 'ELL THA' AH'M LETTIN' 'IM GO ON LOI' THIS; HE'S-"

"Ah can do it, John," Paul said as he released himself from John's grip. He grabbed his bass and started to sing, "C-can't buy me loooooo-ooooo--" but was stopped by an uproar of croupy coughing and unsteady breathing. He sounded like he was gasping for air as he heaved unsteady breaths. Ringo rubbed his back as he said quietly to Paul, "Shh..shh, 's alroi' Paul; jus' breathe...". John looked over to Brian with anger and sympathy for his sick friend in his eyes.

"Look at 'im, Brian," John gestured his head towards Paul, "He can't do this, Eppy...don't make 'im do this."

Brian looked over at Paul who was shivering and holding his hand over his face. He could tell that Paul was trying to supress the tears back into his eyes. He turned away from Paul, looked at John and sighed as he said, "Ah'll explain t' Misteh James wot happened an' try to fix a new concert date."

"Thanks, Ep," John smiled.

"Yeah, yeah," Eppy replied. He looked over at Paul who was coughing again, and looked back at John, "Ah'll send a doctah oveh to th' hotel room immediately", and then walked off to find Jeremy.

John walked over the Paul and looked at his tear-stained face. He's been crying because-well, not only did he feel just aweful, but the entire concert was to be because HE got sick-which made it entirely his fault. John frowned slightly, ruffled his friend's hair as sort of a way to tell him, "Don't worry about it." and felt his forehead once more.

"C'mon, lad," John said quietly, wrapping his arm around a feverish Paul heading for the door and out to the limo, George and Ringo following close behind, "Let's getchu ta bed."


	3. Chapter 3

It was 7:37 when the Beatles got home from their almost-concert. After they'd arrived, the doctor showed up along with Brian Epstein, the Beatles' manager. John, George, and Ringo held their ears up to the crack in Paul's bedroom door trying to listen to what the doctor was saying.

"Arghh," John groaned angrily, "Y'd think th' twit moigh' wanna speak up a bit!"

"Shh," Ringo snapped sharply, "Ah'm troyin' ta listen!"

The boys grew silent as they heard random babbling, and then the doctor's voice piped up. Though, they couldn't really make it out, they heard what sounded like, "Hms gt e tmpf'tr o' a hn'rd an' th'ref."

"This bloke don't even know th' King's english?!" John whispered sharply.

"Wot 'e say?" Ringo asked confusedly.

"Ah think Ah undehstood 'im," George whispered, "Somethin' about Paul's temp'rature: bein'...bloimey-a hundred an' three?!"

"Tha' can't be roigh'," John gasped before turning to Ringo, "...Could it?"

Ringo shrugged as he and the others backed up quickly, when they heard Brian say, "Alroigh', thanks Doc."  
As the doctor walked out of the room, tipped his hat, and left the hotel room. Brian walked out shortly after.

" 'Ow is 'e?" John asked eagerly with concern.

"Well, the lad's been betteh," Brian replied, looking back to the door, "But, he's hangin' in there."

"Wot did th' doctuh say," Ringo asked.

"Says tha' Paul's the gastric flu-"

" 'Gastric'?" John interrupted.

"Holy shite," George cried, " 'S he gonna blow up, o' somethin?!"

"NO! No-" Brian yelled, " It's jus' a stomach bug tha' Paul's got. Doc says with a li'l rest an' some fluids, Paul should be back on 'is feet in no time."

" 'Sactlly how long is 'no toime'?" John added.

"Heck if Oi know," Brian shrugged, "But it'd best be befoh the third of Decembah: tha's yeh new concert date. WHICH, by the way, took me QUITE a bit o' convincin' t' make possible, thank yeh very mu-"

"THANKS, Ep," John interrupted, irritatedly, "Y' don't still 'ave t' give back refunds, do yeh?"

"Lennon-" Epstein growled, grabbing him by the scuff of his collar, "DON'T...ASK!"

Brian walked out of the room, and called as he stepped out the front door of the hotel to go to his own home, fixing his coat, "STAY OUTTA PAUL'S QUARTAHS! HE NEEDS TO REST, ALROI'?! B'SIDES, OI DON'T WANT ANY A' YEHS CATCHIN' NOTHIN'!"

"Yes, Mum!" a disembodied John cried to Brian. The rest of the Beatles laughed, as Brian sighed, shaking his head as he buttoned his coat, muttering under his breath, "Imbeciles."

The boys listened for the front door to shut, and once they heard the quiet SLAM!-the boys darted to Paul's door.

As they opened it quietly, they peeked in quickly before walking in. They tip-toed quietly as they approached Paul's bed. Inside it, turned over, a heavy blanket covering his head, Paul laid there shivering. The boys looked at eachother, and John sat down on the bed by Paul's side.

Paul moaned as he turned over on his back. His abnormally pale face was glimmering with sweat, and his eyes were shut tight which revealed the dark bags that hid underneath them. His cheeks were flushed, along with his nose, and his bangs that rested apon his sweat-drenchd forehead were damp and slightly curled. John felt Paul's forehead with the palm of his hand, and ruffled the top of his head as he pulled it away.

"Warm," Ringo asked, referring to Paul's forehead.

"Hot," John replied, "REALLY hot."

Paul grumbled and fidgeted slightly in his bed. George, John and Ringo looked at him, as Paul's bright hazel eyes looked at them with a weak smile.

"Well," Paul whispered hoarsely, "Hullo there."

"Hoi, Paul!" George cried excitedly, but was quickly shushed by Ringo.

"Keep yeh voice low, son," Ringo whispered, "Las' thing 'e needs is a headache!"

"Oops!" George shrugged, and whispered, "Ah mean...hoi, Paul."

"Haha," Paul laughed quietly, "Hoi, George. An', Rings: Ah'm ill-not dead. Yeh's don't 'ave ta whispeh."

"Roigh'," Ringo rubbed his neck shyly, "Ehm...sorry, Mack."

Paul laughed and then started coughing a little.

"How ya holdin' up, McCartney," John asked with a smile.

"Well," Paul began, sitting up in his bed, "Ah've been betteh, but Ah'm holdin' up pretty well, thanks."

As he said this, his eyes drooped, but his smile remained the same. His eyes shimmered with the glassiness of exhaustion and leftover tears.

"Serves yeh roigh'. This should teach yeh t' be goin' about doin' intehviews when yeh sick." John said seriously, smacking Paul lightly on the arm, "Y' had us scared t' death, lad."

"So wot the docteh say?" Ringo piped up, sitting in a chair near the bed.

"Jus' said-" Paul began, coughed, then continued, "With a good rest an' fluids, Ah'll be foine in no toime."

" 'Gastric Flu', huh?" John smirked with his arms crossed.

"Oh, lord-if only yeh'd seen me face when 'e said 'gastric'," Paul replied excitedly, laughing, "Ah thought Oi was gonna blow up, o' somethin'!"

The Beatles laughed when George cried, "So did Oi!"

"So did 'e!" Ringo and John laughed at the same time.

The boys laughed for a few minutes, joking around about if Paul had blown up. They started making explosive noises imitating Paul just all of a sudden exploding. They laughed for a while, and Paul laughed so hard that he choked himself into a coughing fit. The others frowned as they heard their friend croup for what seemed like hours. John handed him a glass of water the was resting on the nightstand next Paul's bed, and Paul nodded, as if to say 'Thank you' and gulped it down.

He gasped for a moments, and laughed a little again, before coughing one last time, muttering a hoarse, "Needed that," placing the glass on the table.

"Yeh really feelin' loi shite," George said quietly, "Ain't yeh, Mackie?"

"N'aww, Geo-" Paul exclaimed, shaking his head, "Ah'm foine! Ah'm--hA-HAISHOOOO!"

The boys cringed as turned his head to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. Ringo handed him a handkerchief and muttered, "Bless." to Paul.

Paul blew his nose, sniffled a little, and then coughed some more.

"Paul," John said calmly, placing a firm hand on Paul's shoulder, "Lad, yeh don't 'ave teh be proud. EV'RYBODY gets sick an' needs a li'l help from a friend o' two!"

"O' three," Ringo chimed in, "In our case."

"Take it from Ringo," John continued, "The lad's always comin' down with somethin', but 'e jus' swollows 'is proide an' admits it. Take a page from 'is book, lad-it'd do yeh some good."

His eyes were growing heavier, and his chills were coming back again.

"W-w-wot t-toime is it?" He asked sleepily, laying his head against the back wall.

" 'Bout quartah t' eight," John replied, looking down at his watch, "Whoy?"

"I-if it w-weren't fah m-m-me, w-w-we'd be th-th-three q-quatahs of an hour into the show b-by n-n-now."

John, George and Ringo noticed Paul breaking into a cold sweat again.

"Y' look cold, son," Ringo got up and placed his jacket over Paul's shoulders.

"Geo," John said quietly, " 'And me a sock from tha' drawer."

George got out a clean sock form Paul's dresser, and John took a bowl and a water bottle that was left on Paul's night stand, poured the water into the bowl, and lightly soaked the sock as he listened to Paul's rambling.

"A-an' Oi can only imag-g-gine," Paul started up again, "Oll them r-r-refunds tha' p-p-poor Brian's gotta give out, an'--it's jus' all me fault. Ah had t' go a-an' get sick an'--a-an' Ah let ev'rybody down. A-Ah let-YOU GUYS down--"

However, Paul was stopped by and angry fit of coughing that he had been afflicted with once more. It ending quickly, but when it did, Paul's breathing got a bit unsteady and he groaned a little in agony.

"Shh...shh...," John tried to soothe his very ill friend, "Now jus' lay back down, then. There yeh go."

As Paul layed his head back on the pillow, he looked up with weary eyes over at John and then slowly closed them. John wrung out the sock and placed it over his friend's forehead. Ringo and George looked confusedly over at him.

"To help the feveh go down," John whispered, then spoke up quietly and rubbed Paul's shoulder as he tried to comfort and reassure him.

"Now, yeh neveh gonna get any bettah, lad, if yeh keep up oll this worryin'. Nobody's blamin' yeh, Paul: r'membah tha'. Yeh didn' WANNA get sick, now didja? No- it jus' 'appened. An' dontchu worry 'bout Brian- 'e can look afteh 'imself. An' abou' lettin' us down--Paul, tha'll neveh happen. NOTHING you can do on earth is eveh gonna let us down."

"B-but," Paul whispered, almost slurring his words, "But Oi-"

"Now, no 'buts' abou' it!" John interrupeted sternly, in a a sort of paternal sort of way, "Jus' lay quiet an' troy t' get some rest. A' this rate, you'll neveh be betteh by the third o'-"

"W-w-wot's on the th-th-third?" Paul interrupted sleepily.

" 'S not impohtant roight now," John replied, "Wot's impohtant is fah you t' get some sleep so we can 'ave our bassist back," he smiled with a wink.

Paul smiled as he look up at John. He looked over to the others and smiled to them. He then yawned widely, and stretched his chilled body.

"My...goodness," Paul yawned, "Beg pardon, lads."

" 'At's alroigh' Paul," George said quietly, "Y' mus' be exhausted."

"Down roigh' tirin' day you mustah had, yeh poor thing," Ringo muttered.

"Let's give the lad some peace an' quoiet, eh," John said to Ringo and George as he stood up from the bed, "Y'd proba'lly loike us outta yeh hair anyways, eh Paul? Er...Paul?"

They looked over at Paul, and he was fast asleep, snoring quietly. George, John, and Ringo smiled at eachother as they watched their friend sleep.

"Poor lad's oll tuckered out," Ringo whispered.

"At leas' he's asleep," George shrugged.

"Somethin's tellin' me it won't be fah long, though," John muttered curiously, staring at Paul. Ringo and George looked at eachother, then at John. John looked away from Paul and over at his friends, and said, "All Ah'm sayin' is our li'l Paulie's in for a rough noight."

They watched their sleeping friend start to whimper a little bit, but then cease. John walked over to him and pulled the covers all the way up to his chin. He checked to see if the compress was the right temerature- not too warm, not too cold, and looked back over at his other friends.

"Well," Ringo shrugged, "Moigh' as well go t' bed, Ah guess."

"It's eight o' clock!" George exclaimed.

"Yeh- but wot else is there really t' do?"

"An early noigh' feh oll of us then," John nodded.

George and Ringo walked over to the bed. Ringo touched Paul's stomach and said, "Sweet dreams, son." and walked out.

George looked at Paul as he waved and whispered, "Get well soon." and followed Ringo out.

John walked back over the the bed, felt his hot cheek with the back of his hand, placed it on Paul's shoulder, and whispered, "Yeh gonna be jus' foine, kid. G'noight." and just as he walked out, before he turned down the switch, he looked back at Paul sleeping contentedly, smiled, and turned the lights off.


	4. Chapter 4

The clock struck 3, and John, George and Ringo slept in different areas of the main room of the small suite. They slept peacefully through their long night's rest...if only the same could be said for Paul.

In Paul's bed, he tossed and turned: moaning and groaning subconsiously in his sleep. The covers were scrambled on the floor, and Paul, who was now soaked in his own nervous sweat, just layed there and trembled in his sleep-for Paul McCartney was entering a nightmare.

*********************  
Paul had appeared outside of an odd-looking studio, and looked around him not to find, unfortunately, the security of his friends. He walked through the two big doors, and found a large crowd of girls charging.

"Typical nightmare," he thought, "Jus' a buncha screamin' girls."

That's what he thought-until he realized that it was not him who the girls were charging after. They ran right past him, and Paul turned around suprisedly to see what they were running to. They ran down a corridor, and Paul thought of nothing better to do but to follow them. He ran with the girls down the hall and out to the studio's lobby. Paul stopped as he watched the horror.

The girls had somebody held down to the ground and began to beat him. They shouted in his face and screamed like banshees. Paul ran up to the girls angrily and tried to push through the crowd of them to see who the person was.

"OIY! Oiy!" He yelled still shoving, "Tha's no way t' treat anybo-"

Paul stopped mid-sentence to find The Beatles' manager, Brian Epstein lying on the ground, bruised and battered by the girls, in a great deal of pain.

"EP?!" Paul cried with shock, helping him to his feet, "What did they do t' you?!"

"Well," Brian replied taking Paul off to the side away from the girls, "When Ah told 'em th' concert wos cancelled, they got angry an' stahted beatin' me!"

"Oh, lord," Paul said quietly, staring at the banged-up Brian, "Look wot they've done teh ya! Y' poor man. 'Ere, lemme help ye-" Paul went to brush some dirt off of Brian's shirt, when Brian smacked Paul's hand angrily.

"Take yeh hands off me," He snarled, "Ah needn't any assistance from YOU! 'S your fault Ah'm in this mess, anyhow! If you 'adn't caught ill, we'd still have a show! An' now- yeh've made a poonchin' bag outta me! You disgust me, McCartney-DISGUST ME!"

Paul looked at him in upsetedly. He didn't know how to respond, so he just shook his head in disbelief. Then, Brian let out a loud whistle, and all of the girls approached him. He pointed to Paul and cried, "AFTAH HIM!!!!!!!"

The girls shrieked with anger as they ran towards Paul. Paul stared at them wide-eyed with fright, gasped, and then hit the ground running.

"Y' can't run forever, Mack," Brian cried nastilly, "YOU'LL GET YOURS!"

And, as Paul ran, though the threats were coming from far off, they felt like they were being screamed right into his ear-making his head spin and his breathing more heavy. He sprinted up a flight of steps, the girls not far behind, and found a nearby door. This was his chance to escape! He ran through the two doors, slamming it behind him. He leaned against the door panting heavily. The girls were trying to barge in as they thumped at the door, jolting McCartney to-and-frow.

In the dark room, Paul saw three figures standing in the shadows. He squinted at them when the light flashed on, then smiled realizing that they were his friends.

"JOHN!," He screamed, "GEO! RINGO!"

The boys turned around and noticed their friend standing there looking at him distastefully.

"Lads! Aw, thank God," Paul panted, "It's...it's these girls! Brian sent them aftah me-h-he's gone MAD, Ah swear! Wouldja mind helping me with this door?"

The boys stared at him, and then at eachother with disgust.

"Whoy the bloody 'ell would we 'elp YOU?" Ringo asked coldly.

Paul's smile faded in to a deeply concerned frown.

"W-wot?"

"You 'eard 'im," John replied, "Whoy should we be 'elping yeh? YOU'RE the reason whoy our concert's cancelled. If it wasn't fah you gettin' sick-we'd be on-stage t'noight, bein' happy as larks. But now, Mack-yeh gonna bake yah cake an' eat it, too."

"Wo-whaddya tolkin' about?!"

"This," George cried, throwing Paul to the ground as he opened the doors-allowing the mob to flood in. They jumped on top of Paul, Paul shrieking in the horror of it all. He tried to break free of the hundreds of girls that were toppled over him-abusing him violently, screaming things like, "WHOY'D YA HAVE TA CANCEL TH' SHOW?!" " 'SICK', IS 'AT ROIGH'?! RUBBISH!" "YEH'VE LET US DOWN, MCCARTNEY!!"

Paul stilled tried to wriggle free of their grasp, when one of them held a knife to his neck, as they all chanted, "LET US DOWN! LET US DOWN! LET US DOWN!"

"NO! NO, PLEASE," Paul cried, "I-NO-I'M BEGGIN' YEH! PLEASE-LEMME LIVE! LEMME LIVE!! NO!!!"

George snored quietly, when he was awoken by an irritating sound. He sat up on the couch that he was sleeping on, threw a pillow on Ringo's head and whispered, "Quit snorin'."

Ringo grumbled angrily, as he rubbed his eyes and looked up from the floor where he slept, and whispered back angrily, "Wasn't me, an' AH DON'T SNORE!"

"Hate t' tell ya this," John yawned, "But, yoh a real window-rattler, son."

"Shh!"

"But Geo-"

" 'SHH', Ah said," George perked up his ear and listened. There was a sound of mumbling and groaning- not made by any of them either.

"Well, whaddya s'pose that rackit could be?"

"Sounds loi' screamin' t' me," Ringo said with a yawn.

"An' croyin', no doubt," John added, putting on his glasses.

"NO-NO! PLEASE! LEMME GO! PLEASE-" The boys heard it again, and John jumped up.

"Ah know tha' voice," George remarked quietly, " 'S Paul's, tha' i'tis."

"Let's go." John and George began walking, when Ringo shrugged.

"T' where, 'sactly?"

"Oh, an all-noight mixer, o' course," John replied cheekily, then added angrily, " T' check on Paul, ya daft git, where else?!"

They all barged into Paul's room where they found him twitching and shaking in his bed, as if he were trying to escape to clutches of an evil-villain. The boys stared at Paul in confusion and fear, watching him as he groaned and mumbled angrily in his sleep.

"Wot's gotten into 'im?" Ringo asked in a panic.

"A feveh, tha's wot," John replied, sitting down on the bed facing Paul. He took a hold of Paul's shoulders and tried to shake him out of his nightmare.

"Paul!"

"NO!"

"PAUL!"

"NO, PLEASE!"

"WAKE UP, McCARTNEY, WAKE UP!"

"PLEASE," he whispered, as tears formed in his sleepy eyes, "DON'T KILL ME-DON'T KILL ME!!!"

"FAH CHROIST'S SAKE, PAUL, SNAP OUT OF IT!" John cried with a final shake of Paul's frail, sick body.

Paul's screaming faded slowly, as he began to wake up.

"PLEASE...Please, don't...don'...."

"Get a hold a' yehself, Paul," George said quietly, "Everything's alroigh'."

Paul looked at his friends trembling. His entire body was drenched in sweat and his eyes seemed to glow with fever. He gasped a few times, trying to catch his breath, and then covered his face with his hand as he began to quietly sob. John embraced him- like a father would his son-and held him there for a few minutes, looking up worriedly to the others.

"Shh...shh..." John tried to comfort Paul by rubbing his soaking wet back, " 'S alroi'-you're okay. Jus' relax."

Paul sniffled a little, and then wiped some sweat off his forehead. John placed the back of his hand on Paul's forehead, and muttered quietly, "Yoikes. Tha' feveh's a really scorcher, eh?"

George handed John the damp sock that layed at the end of the bed, and he began to soak it in the water bowl again. Paul sat up in a daze shivering uncontrollably.

Never in Paul's life had he felt so undeniabley cold. He had hardly any idea what was going on around him-he barely knew he was awake. Terribley confused, he tried desperately to hold back tears.

" 'Ere, lad," George said, handing Paul a change of clothes and a robe, "T' get outta them wet clothes: yah soaked t' the bone!"

After Paul had changed, the four of them sat in John, George and Ringo's sleeping quarters (otherwise known as the living room) and waited for the tea kettle to whistle. Paul still shivered, but was much more awake and no longer as frightened as he was before.

"Jus' a crazy feveh dream, it wos," John said, "Ev'rybody gets 'em."

"Tha' wos no feveh dream," Paul replied with a sniffle, "Tha' wos a feveh 'noightmare'!"

George came back with the tea tray, and placed it on the coffee table as he sat down next to Ringo on the couch.

"So," Ringo added taking a sip of his tea, "Wodja dream about, anyway, tha' gotcha so shaken up?"

"Maybe 'e don' wanna tolk abou' it...RICHARD!" John hissed.

"I-it's alroight," Paul replied with a cough, "Actually, Ah think it's best you all should know, anyways. But befoh Ah do....Ah need you guys to be hones' an' true with me abou' somethin'."

"Wot is it, son," John remarked, sipping some of his tea.

"What's on yeh mind?" George added.

"Well," Paul started hoarsely, clearing his throat, "Ah know Ah've asked you already...bu' jus' ta be sure....ah yeh POSITIVE yeh ain' mad abou' the concert an'-"

"Oh, hell," John stood up, "Is 'at wot you was dreamin' about?! Us gettin' a li'l upset with yah?!"

"I-it wos moh than a li'l upset, Len," Paul replied, "An' it wosn't jus' you fellas: it wos Brian, an' the fans, an'....You's all wanted me, well....dead."

George and Ringo, who were both drinking tea when Paul began his explanation, spit out their tea as soon as the word 'dead' slipped into their ears. They turned and looked at Paul who was red in the face-even more so than he was before, and his eyes became even droopier.

"Ah think the feveh's gone to yeh head, son," Ringo cried, feeling Paul's forehead.

"Ah jus'," Paul replied with a cough, "Ah jus' don' wanna lose me bes' mates. 'Cos tha'd be a noightmare come true."

"Paul," John said sternly, sitting down next to Paul wrapping an arm around him, "Lad, yeh neveh gonna make our bad-list. We're a TEAM! We don't KILL our team membahs, lad-we ain't cannibals! An' Brian may get a li'l steamed at us sometoimes, but tha' don't mean he's gonna end us! Y' need ta know tha' th' four of us ah togetheh-no matta wot! Through thick an' thin: friends 'til th' end. Despite a cancelled concert or a sick dream, we're still all eachotheh's got. An' we ain't goin' anywhere. Loike it a' not, McCartney, yoh stuck with us!"

The others smiled. They looked at eachother, and then back to Paul. His tired eyes were filling up with tears. He smiled, too, despite how terrible he felt. His smile faded into a yawn, and his eyes drifted to close more and more.

"Y' know wot Oi think," Ringo began, staring at Paul, "Ah think you knew tha' oll along, Paul- tha' we're neveh leavin' yah a' nothin'. And ol; this toime it wos on account a' tha' dream. Mustah scared yeh shiteless, an' so yeh stahted second-guessin' yehself. Not t' mention tha' aweful feveh."

"Poor fellah," George looked, "Mus' be dreadfully confused."

"Ah'm sorry feh puttin' yeh oll through this," Paul groaned, "Guess it would've been betteh if Oi went 'ome t' bed a ways back an' jus' let you lads go on without me-"

"Oy!" John cried, "We ain't 'The Beatles' unless it's ALL of us out there doin' wot we do best."

Paul went to reply, "Tha's....tha's tr--tR-AH-HIISHOOOO!" But was interrupted by a sneeze.

"Gesunheidt," the other three replied.

"Ugh..*sniff* 'true'," Paul pulled out a handerchief, blew his nose and then shivered.

"Poor thing," George whispered, "Mus' be exhausted."

"Yeh ready t' head on back t' bed?" John asked gentley.

"A-ah think so," Paul mumbled feverishly, "But quoite frankly-Ah don't quite feel like movin'."

John thought for a moment, then had an idea. He stood up and whispered it to George and Ringo. They both smiled and nodded. All of a sudden, Paul felt John stood up along with Ringo and George, and they lifted his legs and swung his feet onto the couch so that he was turned sideways.

"Lie down," John ordered.

"W-wot?" Paul replied confusedly.

"You heard me."

Paul, too tired and sick to reply, just did what the doctor prescribed and lied down.  
George noticed Paul shivering more and more, and improvised his jacket for a blanket, when Ringo went into Paul's room and brought one over to the couch. He laid it over him and tucked it under his chin. He took his own jacket, wrapped it in a ball, and laid it underneath Paul's head for a pillow. John laid the cool, damp compress on his forehead once again, and backed away.

"Ah feel jus' aweful 'bout you lads havin' t' take care a' me loi' this," Paul muttered tiredly, "Ah feel so 'elpless, an'-"

"James Paul McCartney," John scolded, "Yeh neveh gonna get any rest with oll this jibber-jabber! Now-bight yeh tongue an' get to sleep!"

Paul looked over at John as he winked, and the others stared happily at him. Paul sighed contentedly to himself and yawned, "Yes, Mum."

John stood there smiling as he watched his best friend quickly drift off into a sleep. It wasn't long before the sound of light snoring came out of Paul. John looked over at George and smiled, when they heard one loud, obnoxious snort. They looked over at Paul, realizing it wasn't him, shrugged, and looked down on the floor to find sure enough that Ringo had fallen asleep too, and began snoring. John covered his ears, looked at George and suggested, "Bathtub?"

"Bathtub," George replied.

And so, the four Beatles dreamed sweet dreams- as John and George slept on either ends of the bathtub, Ringo on the floor of the suite's living room, and Paul on the couch, feeling very much better- knowing that as long as he was a Beatle, and whenever he needed it: he'd ALWAYS have a little help from his friends.

~FIN~

**Day By Day-Part 4** by ~thebeatlegeek94

The clock struck 3, and John, George and Ringo slept in different areas of the main room of the small suite. They slept peacefully through their long night's rest...if only the same could be said for Paul.  
In Paul's bed, he tossed and turned: moaning and groaning subconsiously in his sleep. The covers were scrambled on the floor, and Paul, who was now soaked in his own nervous sweat, just layed there and trembled in his sleep-for Paul McCartney was entering a nightmare. 

Drag and Drop to Collect


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